STAT: Stupid, Trivial, and Twisted
by Jello-Cide
Summary: When was it decided that high school was supposed to be the best years of your life? In whose eyes? Obviously in the eyes of those that were blind to the malicious and yet oblique deeds of the coldhearted. Enter the story of the STAT.


**Chapter 1: Disfigured Modeling Clay**

High schools weren't anything special, and you could probably find an interesting high school anywhere. Hell, hormones run rampant and cause all kinds of destructive behavior. I suppose this story would be one of a randomly picked school with your everyday hormonal teenagers. Though, this school also has what other schools often have, that aren't pointed out nearly as much as need be.

What would this be? The typical problem children who aren't emo and who don't necessarily pick on people to make themselves feel better. Rather, people who can have anything their way because they've learned the tricks themselves; who could have a literal slave, and never be caught; who could slit the throat of those who so much as whisper a word of negativity about them. Those who would just continue life after such events; never becoming a suspect, never getting caught.

This is also about others though -- those that are wrapped within quarrels of the heart. Those that are what might be considered average. Or they may not be, I suppose normal and average could be opinions.

**The** figure of an average high school. Children gathered in and outside the building, dependant on where their friends were in the morning when all the children would clump together and socialize. Some names, some claims of unity between two of these children (or rather young adults, as they would force you to say) scribbled on the walls; a few girls in the washrooms touching up their makeup, and even some boys at that.

The freshmen were going to get it today. Normally the signs weren't given out so early as to make it a perfect ambush. Today however, the free school breakfast became the beginning of Wombat Wednesday. Wombat was the title one freshman gave it, because she had a tendency to spurt out random words, and this one just fit. She however was one of the lucky few who passed for a sophomore, leaving her invulnerable to the horrors of wombat Wednesday.

Cries of freshman seemed to echo throughout the halls already, and it had only been 5 minutes into the school day. The freshman's downfalls were the struggles with their lockers, in which seniors, sophomores, and juniors all noticed and immediately took advantage of. Many of them also had the tendency to keep their schedules, as they often forgot quite quickly which classes they had.

Though, some got away with it. As they, like the mysterious Wombat Wednesday Namer, passed off for sophomores. That's right -- they just appeared to be confused, slightly retarded sophomores.

Speaking of said Wombat Wednesday Namer, she was currently in her first class. Comfortably fitting in with the mixture of all levels of high school years, she nonchalantly picked at her finger nails. A nasty habit, she admitted so. Yet, she had many habits such as this. She propped her face on her hand as her nails had within no time dwindled to nearly nothing. She sighed and looked around -- she already hated this place. Then again, what teenager didn't?

In her mind, she heard her name. It echoed as though telling her to skip school today. It was only two weeks into the school year, and yet it was unbelievably unbearable. Though, being the girl she was, she could easily slip by some of the more social beatings -- especially Wombat Wednesday. She felt the desire to laugh, as she had created the name merely from her amazing ability to spew random words in an extremely loud voice.

Back to her name, it kept repeating itself. It was like it was saying itself over and over merely to confirm her presence in herself.

"So Nanami Oki is absent then?" rang the teacher's voice. Oh, yes, attendance. That explained the voice.

"No, I'm here sir!" she said, regaining her composure and not desiring to be counted as absent due to the absence of her mind in this situation. She sighed -- this was the only teacher that would repeat her name like that. The rest said it once, and then you were absent -- or, at best, tardy. How she hated school. Thus was the life of the Wombat Wednesday Creator, Oki Nanami.

-

**It** was always amusing to do an extremely wicked thing to a freshman, on any day of the week, be it the rest of the older students were doing it or not. He would stoop what most would consider incredibly low for a good laugh, and he was never ashamed to admit that. Though, he would do it to anyone, because no one was truly worth his time. He would use a girl and smash her heart, befriend someone only for gain, or several other things. Very few people were ever in his high graces. He had to say the freshman who had a desk directly next to his. Oh, she could fool some people, but not him.

Her eyes spoke of innocence, and her body was too small and frail, even if she was almost as tall as some older people. She looked like she would break, and part of him wanted to break her. Then she would face the humiliation of looking at someone who had done such horrible things to her as what he wished to do all year long -- then the next year. He was a junior after all.

This was art class, though. She seemed so keen on becoming familiar in this class. Yazoo had taken it only with the knowledge that if he couldn't do a makeshift job, then he really would take someone else's work. People could call him a bully, or a thief all they wanted, but at the end of the day he had a better average than most, and he didn't care how it came to be.

The assignment today was simple, though -- just use the modeling clay that the teacher provides to make either a person or an animal. Didn't have to be fancy and didn't have to be great, it just had to be done by the end of the week. He watched as the girl aside him worked and worked, as though art was truly something to be passionate about.

It was disgusting how people took such a simple every day thing and brought it out as wonderful. It was just another way to express emotion. Big fucking deal.

Yet here this pipsqueak of a girl was, working away as if it was something to be proud of -- something that would truly make you somehow a genius. He wanted to glare at her, he felt the way he did but this girl had the nerve to not realize how pathetic she was. How her ambition and passion was a waste. He would not stand for that passion and ambition to remain so long as he had to see it everyday because this little freshman trash had to think it made her great. Just as all those pathetic people before her had done -- now there were cameras and even using them was considered art. Someone who thought like that was undoubtedly sitting beside him, regardless of how he had no true evidence for his assumption he knew it was true and it was unbearable.

He hated seeing worthless shit with such passion filled eyes.

Oki sighed as time dwindled away in her first art class. Her modeling clay figuring was almost done. It wasn't perfect but how she wished it was! That's why she was taking this class, she supposed, so one day she could become great. She had dreams, and passion, and ambition, and wouldn't relinquish them. So she had to keep trying.

As time left her every passing second she rushed, it was sort of suspenseful on her part. She had two more days but she could not bare it, she had to finish today!

She smiled, as slowly it took form, and then finally it was finished. Though not great, and not perfect, it was a step. She got up to go place it in her turn in cubby the teacher had assigned her only to drop it.

"Great," she muttered, frustrated with herself immediately. "I always do things like this." She reached down to pick it up only to have it crushed by someone else's foot before she could reach it. She was furious -- outraged! She looked up to see someone undoubtedly older than her, around the age of 17. He took his foot off her clay figurine, which was now back to a shapeless form it started as. Though, now it also had dirt in it from his foot.

"How dare you!" she said, almost loud, had her outrage not made it hard to speak nonetheless loudly.

"Get over it, neither I nor that teacher wanted to see that disfigured modeling clay," he said with a snarl.

That hurt. Really. She wasn't going to cry but that was a strike to her pride. She wanted to hit him, to spit on him, to do whatever she could but this boy -- no, this man -- would probably kick her ass and send her straight to the emergency room. She picked up the clay, and walked over to the trashcan to throw it away, saying nothing as she went back to her seat after collecting more clay. It would take more than that to discourage her. She had 10 minutes left anyway.

She seemed stunned, in that moment, he had noticed that. But Yazoo was not one to just let people go when a first blow didn't crush them. Oh, he would show her, he would show her and her disfigured modeling clay.


End file.
